The Gods of Ages Past
by jbluphin
Summary: John Watson is a God. (Complete. I reserve the right to add more if more comes to me, however!)
1. Prologue

He was old.

His name, once spoken with reverence across three continents, was now lost to the annals of time. He alone remembered, but spoke of it to no one. They would not believe Him, or would think Him mad, or joking, unless He displayed His power.

He was born - if such a being can be born - in the sands of what is now known as Afghanistan, born from the ideas of the tribes, trade routes carrying Him to Mesopotamia and beyond, gaining power as more worshipped his now-forgotten name.

Keeper of Life. Bringer of Death. Conductor of Pleasure. Divine of Inspiration. He was all of this, and more.

He liked to visit, now and then, when chance arose. Sometimes He spent a human lifetime wandering; other times, He chose a form and stayed, watching humanity change and grow. If He so willed, He would pass as human, until the time He decided to move on. His form would also change, to blend with any local population He was visiting, in the lands where He was once worshiped.

A voice called out to Him. Not a prayer, like those of ages past, but a call for aid. To provide. To be of use.

'JOHN! Pay attention! I need you to hold this liver!'

The being now known as 'John Watson' roused Himself from His reverie. He had work to do.


	2. Remnants and Reminiscences (1 of 3)

Sherlock was lying on the couch when John got home. At the sound of footsteps, he lolled his head over towards the door and drawled,

"First Tuesday of the month - back from your usual trip to the British Museum, then?"

John nodded. The British Museum was one of the many sites in the world where one of His artifacts of worship was stored. In fact, it had several of them, but only one on display to the public, and that is what concerned him. He gained a bit of power for ever visitor who stopped by to admire His figure - just a fragment, but it was enough - and he liked to visit it regularly and think of times gone by.

"I don't see why you go so often, John. It's not like there's anything interesting there."

"There's plenty of interest there, Sherlock - the place is huge! You could spend _weeks_ there and still not see everything."

"Yes, but you're not trying to see everything, are you? You go for an hour, two at the most, once a month after work, and always to the same section. It's not like that part changes regularly, either."

"How do you...? Never mind. It's interesting, that's all. Don't you ever think about how _old_ the world is, the people who've lived and died in the expanse of human history?"

"Irrelevant," sniffed Sherlock. "Ancient history doesn't affect the present in any meaningful way."

John just shook his head, staying silent. He wouldn't argue with Sherlock on this one. He couldn't win the argument without revealing more about himself than he'd prefer.

* * *

There were some facts that were important to take into account when you considered John Watson.

John had been raised human. Or had been enough for all practical purposes, anyway. In truth, when He decided to become John Watson, he simply integrated himself into the already existent Watson family. Harry Watson remembered her brother because he'd always been there, even if He hadn't. He remembered his childhood with her, even if He hadn't lived it at the time.

He started "from scratch" every now and again, but he found being a child aggravating - it rendered him dependent on others and unable to wander as he wished. Jumping in a bit later in life was far more expedient.

He had enjoyed medical school, and had originally planned on going through this lifetime embracing His Aspect as a healer, but when an opportunity had arisen to go Home (for he still thought of the land of His origin as such) he had been unable to resist - he hadn't visited since 1880.

Killing people didn't bother him, though he was not indifferent to their sufferings, either. In the past, in His prime, he would help those that worshipped Him, or interested him; but he had a different outlook than mortals when it came to matters of life and death. None worshipped Him now, but he still came to the aid those who crossed his path, from time to time.

He couldn't read minds, unless they were bent towards Him in prayer. He was very good at reading _people_, however, with eons of experience to draw on. He was not all-knowing, nor all-seeing, but he could monitor beings and places if he desired, if they knew him. He could view the lands where He was once worshipped, or target his gaze on any person known personally to him or one of his Aspects.

He enjoyed sex. After all, that was one of his Aspects as well. He could as easily bring pleasure and life as he could pain and death. His very human body _could_ get injured or become ill if he didn't use his power. If it died, He could simply move onto another form - but he was rather enjoying this one.

* * *

"Good day at the clinic?" Sherlock yawned, stretching his reclined figure.

"Yes," John said simply, heading into the kitchen to make some tea.

It had been. John avoided showy miracles, but he would gently nudge things in the right direction if he had the opportunity. He liked to be of use. Someone who had come in for the flu would walk out without the tumor that they never knew they had. Today he had saved three lives that no one would ever know about, or thank him for.

He tended to only help when asked - but if you were walking into a doctors office, surely that meant that you _wanted_ to be well.

He'd told Harry once, offering to help her with her problems with alcohol, reduce her cravings - something he would not do without her permission, since he didn't like interfering with peoples minds. It had ended badly. She had thought he was joking at first, but when he manifested some of His power, she had panicked. It ended it a huge argument, where she blasted him for his interference in the same breath as she accused him of selfishness.

"But you could _help_ people!"  
"Who says I don't?"

He ended up erasing the discussion from her mind (after she had screamed that she wished he had never told her), but their relationship had always been slightly soured afterwards. These things left traces. It was one of the reasons he had never mentioned it to Sherlock.

* * *

Living with Sherlock was an adventure in and of itself.

When John first met Sherlock and the detective had rattled off that ever-so-clever string of deductions, John had been surprised. Considering who and what he was, the unexpected wasn't something he came across everyday. Sherlock had been correct on all counts - he'd just missed the underlying bit about John's Other nature - and really, that was an understandable oversight.

He _did_ limp because he was bored. But it's hard to explain to a therapist that you are bored not just because you miss the battle, but because in uncountable millennia, you've seen just about everything, and been pretty much everywhere. He'd just about given up on being John Watson when that chance encounter with Mike Stanford occurred. Sherlock was INTERESTING. He couldn't predict which way the sleuth would jump next - and for all that John _could_ see if he focused, it was fascinating that this mortal man could pick up on details that John would generally have ignored and interpret them so accurately. And when you are dealing with eternity, something new is _always_ worth examining.

And the crimes! These were puzzles he couldn't simply Will up the answer to. What was past was past and outside His View - he could only see the here and now, so he usually couldn't just peek at who'd done it and why. And even when he could, he usually didn't. Watching Sherlock's process was fascinating. Occasionally, he'd drop a hint by saying just the right thing at the right time (not that he necessarily knew _why_ it was the right thing to say - that wasn't the point of Inspiration), but that was usually the extent of his interference beyond what any other person could do. Besides, when he took up the mantle of humanity, he preferred not to cheat too much.

He _had_ cheated a bit with the cabbie, though. He had no need to carry a weapon, nor a real use for one, but when he witnessed the scene through the college window, he had wanted this new, fascinating human to live. And it was much more convenient to smite with a weapon of humanity than with His Will. No need to draw undo attention. And so, he had kept his service gun with him when he was released from the army, and was carrying it with him as precaution, even if it hadn't occurred to Him to do so prior to that moment. And his shot, of course, was impeccable.


	3. Remnants and Reminiscences (2 of 3)

John was examining an older woman with a cough when he heard it.

_John._

It was _almost_ a prayer. He could feel the weight of the thought against his mind. It tasted... like Sherlock. He focused on the man, and Sherlock came into His View. The detective was cuffed to a radiator in a small, dark, room. He was in pain, and obviously had been beaten.

John started - he hadn't known Sherlock was on a case. He tried to keep the man in his periphery if there was a significant chance at danger, but didn't usually bother on a day to day basis.

He finished up with the woman quickly, diagnosing her bronchitis without going through the usual routines that most doctors would need to be sure.

"Sarah, I have to go - I just got a call from Sherlock, and it sounds like he's in trouble. My shift is almost over anyway, can you take the last few patients?"

He barely waited for Sarah's begrudging sigh of assent before he was out the door, waving at the nearest cab. Though he normally let Sherlock hail them, he could demand attention when he desired. The cab moved quickly through the unusually light London traffic, John's need to find Sherlock expediting their path. He pulled out his phone and called Lestrade's familiar number.

After the first ring, the D.I. picked up. John cut off his usual greeting, talking quickly.

"Greg - Sherlock's being held prisoner in a warehouse a few blocks from Westbourne Park. I'm heading there now to get him out - I'll meet you there."

"He's been what? John, don't do anything - "

John hung up abruptly as the cab pulled up a few blocks from the warehouse. John leapt from the car, tossing money behind him. As he walked briskly towards the lot, he pulled the whole building up in his View. There were two thugs with guns standing guard outside of the room containing Sherlock, an office of some sort. A few more gang members were scattered throughout the warehouse, most congregated in a large central area where they were loading up boxes of what John assumed was contraband.

He considered his options. He had managed to keep his otherworldly nature hidden from everyone in his current life; and he'd rather keep it that way. For one thing, Mycroft Holmes knowing about the power of Gods? He shuddered at the thought. So what to do here? While within His power, most would not think that John Watson could simply waltz into the middle of a gang's hide out, take them all out, and stroll out uninjured. He also didn't want to risk Sherlock being used as a hostage when the police arrived. So stealth was probably his best option.

John walked around the warehouse until he was somewhat close to where Sherlock was being kept. Going unnoticed would be fairly simple, save for the two guards directly outside the office, and he could manage them. He chose a window. It was, as he Willed, unlocked, and he cracked it open, hoisted himself up, and crawled through, dropping silently into the empty hallway on the other side. This would be the tricky part. Pulling out his gun (cheating slightly, since a moment ago it had been buried in a drawer, back at Baker Street), he crept towards the corner where he knew the two guards would be on their guard.

John focused for a moment, and the fire alarm went off. The two guards glanced at each other, then one nodded at the other and went to investigate, walking off in the direction opposite of John.

Distracted by the noisy alarm, and looking where his partner had just disappeared around the corner, the remaining guard didn't notice John's movement until he was already on top of him. John slammed the man into the wall, twisting his arm behind his back, and held the gun to his head. "Keep quiet, or you'll regret it," he hissed. The guard went still. John quickly disarmed the man (including the second gun in a holster, hidden on the thug's calf), and motioned for the him to open the door. As soon as the thug pulled out his keys, John cracked him over the head, knocking him unconscious.

John opened the door carefully, and therefore narrowly avoided being rushed by Sherlock. The detective had picked his cuffs and gotten himself free, and had been poised to tackle his capturers despite his injuries.

"Keep it down!" John whispered sharply, motioning for the detective to follow him. Sherlock stared at John in surprise, then nodded and followed him out into the hall, limping slightly. They passed by the unconscious guard - the other one hadn't returned yet - and snuck down the hall to the window through which John had entered. Helping the injured detective climb through first, John quickly followed, and the pair held still in their position by the side of the building, waiting to see if anyone came looking for them. When no further alarm was raised (other than the still blaring fire alarm), they hustled across the lot and dashed off, until they could round a corner and were out of sight down an alleyway a few blocks away.

Panting slightly, Sherlock almost collapsed onto the ground, clutching his broken wrist. John knelt down beside him and started examining his injuries.

"I called Lestrade," John stated, hand on Sherlock's chin as he inspected the man's bruised and bloodied face and his split lip. "He'll likely be here in 5 minutes or so."

Sherlock nodded, caught his breath, then sat up, leaning against the alley wall for support. John braced himself, sensing the onslaught of questions about to come his way, even as he worriedly continued to check the extent of Sherlock's wounds, mentally prodding them so that the pain would ease somewhat.

"How did you find me?" Sherlock demanded.

"You aren't the only one who can do a bit of detective work," John hedged, continuing his examination.

"Yes, but you had no _reason_ to look for me, I'd only been there a couple hours, at most. That gang was trying to go unnoticed, they wouldn't have contacted you for ransom. And to get here by this time, you must have left your job early. You didn't even go back to the flat - you came directly here from the clinic. As if you knew exactly where I was. So again, HOW? It wasn't Mycroft - if he'd known I was in trouble, he would have sent his own team, not you. Unless I'm missing something, and I don't think I am, there was literally no reason for you to be looking for me, nor any practical way for you to find me here."

"I'd rather... it isn't important, Sherlock. I found you, OK? Can you leave it at that?"

Sherlock's mind was racing, thoughts focused on the entirety of his knowledge about John. In other circumstances, such attention could have been quite pleasant, but as it was, the focus was almost accusatory. John watched as scattered images flew across the detectives mind and were near-instantly dismissed while the man went though possible explanations. John winced, dismayed that such suspicion (the like he hadn't felt since that fiasco at the pool) was directed his way.

It was clear that the detective was not going to let this go.

"FINE! I'll explain. Just... just _stop_ that, please." John rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the cacophony.

Sherlock looked puzzled, but gratified, and waited expectantly. His thoughts slowed somewhat, but were still entirely focused on John.

John sighed. He'd thought about telling Sherlock before this, but had always decided against it. He was happy with how things were. If Sherlock took it the wrong way, John would be forced to move on, take up a new life and form. But he couldn't leave the detective's questions unanswered - he had revealed too much in his rush to save his friend. With any other man, John could probably have explained the whole thing away with excuses and distractions, but Sherlock was too sharp for that. He hesitated a moment longer, but ultimately decided on the truth.

He drew a deep breath.

"You called me." John stated it as a fact, unassailable.

"I what? I did no such thing, they broke my mobile."

"You called to me. You were thinking of me and wondering if I'd find you. Hoping I would. Honestly, I probably would have checked up on you anyway if you'd been gone for an unusual amount of time, but when you call my name like that, it grabs my attention."

Sherlock stared, and said, slowly, "You aren't making any sense, John."

"Let me show you, then. May I take care of your injuries?"

"Hm? Yes, fine - do you have your med kit with you? I didn't see it. I suspect my lip will need some stitches. And my wrist seems to be broken. Show me what, exactly?"

"That's not quite what I meant. Watch." John lifted a hand to Sherlock's face, gently touching his split lip. It wasn't strictly necessary, but the touch made it more evident what he was doing, and what his intent was. It had been a while since he had healed anyone so obviously, but that was due to wanting to avoid attention more than any particular difficulty.

Sherlock continued to stare at John, confused and clearly wondering what John was doing, then his eyes widened. His uninjured hand flew to his mouth, pressing his fingers to his lips. His mouth was completely healed. Or rather, it seemed as if it had never been injured in the first place.

"What...? How...?"

"Hold still. Let me take care of your wrist, and the rest of you."

Sherlock blinked, as suddenly his pain from the bruises, broken bones, and scrapes disappeared.

"I wouldn't want to keep you from your violin for as long as it takes a wrist to heal naturally, since I'm already at it," John smiled slightly at the sleuth.

Sherlock stood up and stretched out his arms, examining his formerly broken wrist, then started to prod his torso, searching for any remaining signs of injury. Finding none, he whirled and turned his attention once more towards John, fiercely.

"That's ... I would say that this is impossible, but..."

"But it's only very, very improbable, yes."

"What did you do? How could you possibly do that?"

"That's a bit difficult to explain, Sherlock. I promise I'll tell you, but is now really the time? Lestrade will be here any minute, and we really should go talk to him. You must understand I don't really want this getting out."

Sherlock looked as though he wanted to object, but instead pressed his mouth in a tight line and nodded reluctantly, allowing himself to be led back to where the police would soon be congregating.

John sighed. He had a very brief window to get his thoughts in order and to figure out exactly how to explain things to the great detective.


	4. Remnants and Reminiscences (3 of 3)

A few hours later, Lestrade had finally released the pair. At Sherlock and John's direction, the police had managed to surround the gang and take them by surprise, confiscating the large stash of drugs they had been boxing up.

John claimed that Sherlock had managed to send him a message containing his location before his phone was broken, which Sherlock (somewhat reluctantly) corroborated. John had disappeared his gun by this time, and said he'd simply managed to surprise the lone guard and to disarm him. The D.I. had been a tad suspicious of the story initially, but ultimately accepted it.

"You're lucky that neither of you were seriously injured!" Lestrade had yelled. Sherlock had glared towards John, and said, rather darkly, "Yes, not even a split lip or broken wrist out of it." John had given his flatmate a sharp look at that, saying nothing.

But Sherlock had filled in the details of his investigations into what apparently had been a drug cartel, and had begrudgingly backed up John's story, so Lestrade finally let them leave the Yard.

No sooner had they left the building then Sherlock turned on John once more.

"Explain. Now. I've been MORE than patient, considering you've been handing me _fairy stories."_

John winced at the tone and Sherlock's was clear agitation - seeing the impossible did that to people.

"You _healed me_, you made my injuries _disappear_. How could you possibly do that? Not to mention that nonsense about just _knowing_ where I am."

"Yes, well, it's hard to explain. There's a reason I haven't mentioned it to you before. I only did what I did out of necessity, and when it was clear you wouldn't just let it go."

"Have you ALWAYS been able to magically heal people?"

"Well... yes, I have. It's part of who I am. What I am."

Sherlock was silent, absorbing this statement. John could feel the weight of the man's consideration as the great mind took in the odd phrasing, analyzing it, almost hesitating to question it. But Sherlock's need to know would always conquer any other trepidation.

"And what is that, exactly?"

"I'm... I'm not exactly human, Sherlock. I mean, my body is, but I'M not. In fact, I was once, well... they once called me a God."

John closed his eyes and braced himself, waiting for the usual onslaught. He'd heard it all, time and time before, whenever he revealed himself. About the _responsibilities_ his status gave to him, about the _good_ he could do, if he just told people. Or alternatively, outright denial. He'd been put in an asylum once, by one of his assumed families, when he had told them what he could do. Proof and demonstrations had meant nothing to them, it had only terrified them more, so they locked him away. He'd had several lives where he'd been killed outright for his "unnatural" powers. He waited, but Sherlock remained silent. Until... John's eyes flew open, staring at the detective in surprise. He was not prepared for the quiet thought that moved across the detective's mind, hesitant and unsure.

_But... then why are you wasting your time with me?_

"You believe me." John stated, started, gazing at Sherlock. Sherlock straightened, attempting to resume his more normal, confident demeanor, unaware that his thought had been overheard.

"Well, I suppose I can't doubt the evidence of my own eyes, not to mention my other senses. You clearly have abilities beyond most, it's not surprising people would worship you for them."

"That's not _quite_ how it works - it's a bit the opposite, actually," John commented.

"Oh?"

"When I said people called me a God, I meant that quite literally. I exist because of that belief - when people needed a God, I was there for them. And although people stopped worshipping me a few millennia go, I still remain. A remnant of that time." John stared in the distance, eyes glossed over and lost in memory.

"-Wait. Millennia?" Sherlock interrupted John's reverie. "You're over a THOUSAND years old?"

"Well, yes. Quite a bit older than that, in fact. But for the past few thousand years I've been living mostly as human, moving around, blending in, changing form."

"So... you're just pretending to be a human? Are... are you even you? Are you even John Watson?" Sherlock turned his gaze piercingly onto John, not quite panicking, but anxiety rising rapidly. "Has it all just been an act, trying to blend in with humanity?" Sherlock demanded. "Who are you then? If not John Watson."

_If not my friend_ remained unspoken, but not unheard.

"It's not been an act, Sherlock. I'm still John Watson, I'm just... something else as well."

Sherlock shook his head, almost in denial, almost plaintively.

"Let me show you." John raised his arm towards the street, and a cab pulled up almost immediately. Sherlock looked startled at the prompt arrival for a moment, then opened the door and got in. John followed after.

"Where are we headed?"

"The British Museum."

The cab took off, and the two remained silent, both aware of the presence of the cab driver, and uncertain of how to proceed. Sherlock looked as if he was about to ask something, and John shook his head.

"Wait until we get there."

As the cab pulled up in front of the museum, Sherlock could no longer remain silent.

"Am I to find out why you visit here every month, then?" he inquired.

"Yes." John said simply. They entered the building, John leading the way. He walked with the gait of someone who has walked a particular path a thousand times before. And perhaps he had. Silently, the pair walked past towering Egyptian sculptures, past tiled mosaics and bronze figures, past sculptures and jewelry and precious stones, until they reached a quiet room full of Assyrian artifacts.

"Here."

John stopped in front of a display case and waited. Sherlock looked down at a small, clay figurine, with rough, humanoid features. It was simply labeled '_Seated Male Figure from Mundigak. Baked Clay. Third millennium BC.'_

"Is that... you?"

"An Aspect of me, yes. It was used as a... totem, of sorts, when people needed Me, or wished to ask My favor. This is one of the earliest pieces of Me - that archeologists have found, I mean, I could direct them to a few more if there were any pressing reason to do so."

"Is that when you were... when you came about?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

"Hmmm, well, the answer to that is both yes and no. I came into the human consciousness a few millennia before that figure was created, which was when I started interacting with humans. But I've always been here, Sherlock. I remember the formation of the earth, even if I was born of human minds at the dawn of your civilization. That's simply how it works. I can't explain it any other way."

John could feel Sherlock's mind considering this information. The detective was somewhat calmer now, with physical evidence of John's prior existence, even if it was extraordinary.

"It doesn't look much like you." Sherlock stated hesitantly.

"It wouldn't. Appearance doesn't matter so much as intent. I've changed appearance any number of times. But this, this remnant of my power, this connection, it's always there. I can feel it, like a pressure on my mind."

John turned from the display case and faced Sherlock directly, for the part that was most critical for his friend to understand.

"But it's not everything that's me, it's just a fragment of it, of what I used to be. What I do, on a day to day basis, is who I _am_. I may be a memory of humanity's past, but I'm still John Watson now. I haven't been pretending, or acting. And I choose to stay here because, even after thousands of years of living with humanity... you, Sherlock Holmes, are a source of endless fascination."

At this statement, Sherlock look both embarrassed and pleased, as susceptible to the flattery of his art as ever.

"Right. Right then, now that that's clear," John said, drawing himself up again and giving his friend a moment. "I know you've got questions."

Sherlock looked thoughtful, pondering the vast number of questions this day had brought about. John waited patently. Considering the various shocks and revelations of the day, it was a relief that the detective was calming down. Sherlock opened his mouth, paused, and then commented, "This is why you don't get on with your sister."

He gestured towards John's totem again as a representative of John's abilities. "I assume she's not also... a God," he almost stumbled over the last few words, still wrapping his head around the very idea. John smiled - trust Sherlock to want to test his newfound knowledge with a deduction, rather than a question.

"No, she's purely human. And yes, that's part of why. But we've never been very particularly close. And she wasn't ever really supposed to have a brother, I suppose, so the addition of one into her life didn't really do much for her."

Sherlock was gaining back his confidence, becoming more like his usual inquisitive self, John noted, relaxing somewhat.

"So, what can you do?" Sherlock went on.

"Me? Not too much, just the basics, really. I'm a bit more limited when I take human form, and I'm not exactly at the height of my powers anymore. I can heal, as you saw. And kill, or smite I suppose is the usual term. I can tap into human knowledge to gain relevant information on occasion. I can see people I know, or parts of the worlds where I was worshipped, and sense objects that have been bound to me, like that figurine." John paused for a moment, thinking.

"Sometimes I bring Inspiration," he nodded here at Sherlock, "or just a bit of clarity of thought. Oh, and I hear prayers and desires, of course. Those are the obvious abilities, but generally I can just Will things as I want them, if it's not too major."

"And yet you can't work a chip and pin machine."

John frowned at that. He was _always_ getting used to new technology - humans were constantly changing things, these days.

"Just the basics, you said..." Sherlock gazed off into space for a moment, thinking. John smiled as he felt Sherlock mind start to roam, considering possible uses, abuses, and experiments to test these claims, when all of a sudden the thoughts stuttered to a halt. The detective stood up straight and fixed an intent stare at John.

"...Wait, can you read _my_ mind?"

"Only when you're thinking of me."

Sherlock started at that, and on any other person you might have said he started to blush.

"Which means yes, I've heard all your unspoken insults and begrudging silent praises. Don't worry, though, I generally try to respect your privacy and tune you out for day to day things." John reassured his friend and flatmate.

"Right," Sherlock said faintly. "Yes, of... of course."

Shaking himself slightly as if out of a daze, Sherlock returned to his former train of thought as they started walking towards the museum exit.

"Now, if I were to cut off one of my toes..."

"SHERLOCK!"

"Not an _important_ one, John, just the smallest, on my left foot, say. It would only be _temporary_, right?"

"Sherlock, I swear, if you start disfiguring yourself, I'll leave you that way out of spite."

"But John, it would be for SCIENCE!"

They were still arguing over the details of what was and wasn't allowable for experimentation by the time they got back to Baker Street. John found himself agreeing to any number of questionable demonstrations - he always had found it hard to say no to the man, God or no. John smiled to himself as they climbed the stair, Sherlock going on about methods of testing for displacement of matter when regrowing lost limbs. But as they entered the sitting room, John took a deep breath. He had to ask.

"You... I know I was hiding this from you, but you understand why, right? You don't... want me to move out or anything? I'll go if you want, I understand if all this is too weird for you." He looked anxiously towards his flatmate.

"Don't be ridiculous John," Sherlock scoffed. "You've just opened up a completely new line of scientific inquiry. If you left, I'd have to go track down _another_ God, and that could take _ages_. And it's obvious why you didn't tell anyone. I'll keep my observations to myself, and for my own purposes - you can trust in that."

Sherlock's eyes didn't quite match his demeanor.

_Please don't leave._

"I trust you," John smiled.

_I won't._


End file.
